One of my characters is most certainly a Nazi. There is no need for her to be coy about it. Everyone she knows is a Nazi. For a time. Perhaps I have her born at the very instant that the Fuhrer-to-come is yelling in a beer hall Putsch. I should say that one particular problem with doing Nazi research is also stumbling into modern fascist sites.
If we ever lose our Freedom of Googling right, I fear for my Cookies. And the audience are certainly dressed for Versailles. But the performers are nubile young women in various states of undress, jostling on cart and horseback, some with their dignity tucked behind a frond.
A lucky few are clothed; above they look like cocktail waitresses at a Jolly Rogers, while others are veiled to spin as dervishes or wearing a fetching helmut and nappy ensemble. There are Indians, Amazons, and slaves of every race. The woman painted gold is dancing in a vaguely Chinese-fashion; women bang ribboned tambourines in a manic tarantella that brings to mind the gypsies their party was already persecuting. Freakish, bizarre and, it must be said, strangely intriguing.
These are a people who like their pageantry, however peculiar. One cultural group is noticeable in its absence. Perhaps their representation was a step too far, even for Nazis ready to party.
One of my characters may have been a Weimar prostitute. It seems a strange twin to the coloured-taxonomy that was to come, when a pink triangle or yellow star spoke volumes. So, Weimar prostitute β so far, so expected. What kind of prostitute then? Is there life after Sally Bowles? There would appear to be 16 types of prostitutes, according to Mel Gordon, whose Voluptuous Panic surveys Weimar erotica.
